My Heart Beguiled
by Katie Duggan's Niece
Summary: Bransonfic written in response to Batwings79's 2012 Downton Abbey St. Paddy's Day Challenge. A heart-to-heart talk between Tom and Sybil ends in tears...or at least with him seeking comfort by precisely the wrong means, and in precisely the wrong company. NOW COMPLETE.
1. The Rest Is Detail

Written at Batwings79's instigation and according to her 2012 St. Paddy's Day challenge guidelines. The characters belong to Julian Fellowes.

**~.O.~**

_"I don't think there's any point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually." Daniel Patrick Moynihan_

**~.O.~  
**

**My Heart Beguiled**

**Chapter 1: The Rest Is Detail  
**

"Come on now. Come on."

Tom knew he'd been at this a good long while - the sweat on his forehead was proof enough of that, wasn't it - but he couldn't stop, not now. He was nearly there; just a bit more, just the right touch, and he'd have her purring like a cat -

There. _There._

With a sigh he straightened up and raised one forearm to his brow, wiping away the perspiration. There was a cloth resting on the workbench, and he took it up to clean the oil from his hands, and as he did so he cast a fond eye on the motorcar. They got on well together, the two of them, as long as he gave her a bit of consideration.

Mind you, he'd never thought to be a chauffeur - and to an English earl to the bargain - and ought to have laughed if anyone had suggested one day he'd find himself dressed in a coverall and cleaning the grime from his fingers. But there he was, and feeling the glow of pride all the while too.

Of course he understood the reason for that well enough: the sure knowledge it was men such as himself who did the work, kept the world moving forward and, in the years to come, would change it.

Yes. Well, there'd be a time for that last bit, but for now there was this matter of making a living. He tossed the soiled cloth aside and set about undoing the coverall and peeling it off his frame - for all the world as though he were emerging from a cocoon.

_Or a shroud. _The thought was as unbidden as it was unwelcome, and it was only through stubborn will that Tom banished it from his mind. Damn his memory, and all the shadows it cast over his present hopes.

For that matter damn anything that stopped him doing what he needed to do, such as getting the motor ready for the afternoon, when Lady Mary was expecting him to take her into Ripon.

With any luck at all, she'd want one of her sisters to accompany her, and with greater luck, that sister should not be Lady Edith - who might of course drive the both of them herself. No, it must be the youngest of Lord Grantham's daughters, and there was an end of it.

Mind you, it was only a drive, nothing more, and even then Tom wouldn't have Sybil to himself, or the opportunity to speak freely. But any sight of her was better than none at all, and today he could believe himself in luck.

With a lighter heart, he made short work of the half dozen or so things to be done before he took his place behind the wheel. And all the while he was humming a bit of song he remembered from another time, before the war.

_Oh! You beautiful doll,_  
_You great big beautiful doll!_  
_Let me put my arms about you,_  
_I could never live without you._  
_Oh! You beautiful doll,_  
_You great big beautiful doll!_  
_If you ever leave me how my heart will ache – _

He'd begun singing it in earnest, and fairly dancing it as well, when he realized he was no longer alone.

~**.O.~**

_So softly she came _  
_That her feet made no din._

She had to have done for him not to have been warned of her approach, for she was standing not two yards from him by the time he caught sight of her.

She was in a white blouse, of a cloth so fine a fairy might have worn it, and a skirt the color of ripe plums – no need anymore for her to go about in that dull grey thing they'd called a nurse's uniform - and she was smiling at him too, whether encouragingly, because she'd been thinking on what he'd told her, or mockingly, having surprised him at just the wrong moment, he could not say. But perhaps the reason didn't matter, as long as she was standing this near and looking so –

"There's something on your face."

"What?"

"A bit of grease from the motor, perhaps. Oh, no, no, that's not it at all!" said Sybil, as Tom began rubbing at his chin and forehead. "Here, let me help you." She tucked the book she was carrying under one arm and drew out her own pocket handkerchief - white, pure white.

"You'll spoil it," he warned her.

"It doesn't matter," said Lady Sybil as she stroked one or two spots on his face, and Tom didn't know whether to think himself a rare fool, given the state he was in, or the luckiest fellow alive, for she _was_ touching him, however lightly.

"There." She finished her work, and for an instant gave him another smile - with no trace of scorn in it, none that he could see - but it vanished just as quickly, and then the both of them were standing there, Sybil holding the handkerchief as though she'd no notion what to do next.

"Here, let me see to that," said Tom, reaching out one hand.

"No, I'll take it."

He watched as she carefully, almost reverently, folded the handkerchief and placed it in her pocket.

"Veronica's veil now, is it?"

"What?"

"Nothing. You've been reading," he added, to change the subject.

"No, I always go about carrying a book so people will think I'm clever," said Sybil. "Of _course_ I've been reading!"

Tom grinned. There it was; there was her old spirit. He reached out his hand to her again, and this time she willingly surrendered the handsome little volume.

"Elizabeth Barrett Browning," he read aloud. "**Sonnets from the Portuguese**. Can't say I've ever read it."

He wished he'd had sense enough to resist the parting comment, soon as he saw the look on Sybil's face.

"Yes. Well, it's a book of verse -"

"I did know that," he said, more sharply than he'd intended.

"Don't take offense. It's only that I believed politics meant a great deal more to you than did poetry."

"Ah, Lady Sybil," said Tom warmly, leaning back against the workbench. "Now what manner of Irishman would I be if I'd no use for poetry? Better men than myself have spent their whole lives at it."

"_And_ women!" she shot back, but with a smile that told him peace was restored.

"And women; I'll grant you that," said Tom. "Like your Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But tell me, do you know Padraic Pearse?"

"I'm afraid I don't," said Sybil, lowering her gaze.

"Joseph Plunkett?"

She furrowed her brow, shook her head. "No."

"W.B. Yeats, then."

"Yeats -"

For a moment Tom fancied he spotted a gleam of recognition in her eye, and just as swiftly the words came to him, words written in those years before the uprising.

_"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, _  
_Enwrought with golden and silver light, _  
_The blue and the dim and the dark cloths _  
_Of night and light and the half light, _  
_I would spread the cloths under your feet."_

There was more, of course, but he couldn't bring himself to say it to her, not yet.

"That's beautiful," she whispered, and at the look on her face Tom silently thanked God for the poet William Butler Yeats, and for a good, sound memory, and for -

"I have never read that, or any Irish verse, really," Sybil went on. "But I should like to someday."

"I'll see what I can find, shall I?"

"If it's no trouble."

"Of course it's not."

With that he made as if to return her book, but she said, "No, take it; I've read them all."

"All right, then."

"I've even learnt one or two by heart," she added, with a little smile. "Just as you -"

"Just as I can remember the Yeats."

"Yes." She perched herself against the workbench, alongside him. "I've always been fond of the sonnets, and so have Mama and my sister Edith.

"Mary has no time for such things, of course, and Papa - well, Papa prefers Robert Browning, as one would expect, though I do not think that fair to Elizabeth Barrett. Browning sought _her_ out, you see, when her fame was greater than his own."

_Greater than his own. _Was that meant to remind him_, _then_, _of who she was, and what he was? He hadn't expected that of Sybil, not when he'd humbled himself before her, and laid his very heart bare - _  
_

"...of course I credit his persistence, and her courage," she was saying. Once again she cast her eyes downward, and smiled. "Yes, I say 'courage,' for I think it is always easiest just to go on as one has always done. To do what is expected, I mean..."

Dear God, she was talking of duty, and of obligations, and of convention. Well, convention be damned -

"...they say she was devoted to her own father - to all her family, really. But then one sees that in the verse..."

As she went on speaking, and Tom caught the music of her voice if not the words, he could think of little but that she was standing so near to him, as close as if they'd been alone together in rooms of their own, and yet it seemed she'd come only to tell him -

"...and from there to Italy. It sounds quite romantic now, of course, but it was not without a price, at least for her. Never again would she see..."

Right. Sybil would chatter away at him about long-dead poetesses and their journeys abroad, while he stood there, waiting for her to be done, that he might put on his uniform jacket and cap, and do her elder sister's bidding, and her father's, and -

_" - nor count it strange, when I look up, to drop on a new range of walls and floors, another home than this?"_

She paused then, and Tom realized she'd been reciting a bit of verse to him as he'd stood there mulling the very bitterest of all his thoughts. And now Sybil was looking at him expectantly, if a bit shyly, and he must speak before the silence grew too much for either of them to bear.

"That's grand_,_" he said finally, and cursed his lack of imagination when the expression in her eyes told him it was the wrong answer, that she'd expected more of him._  
_

"There's more of course," said Sybil. "But I cannot say it, not just now," she added, avoiding Tom's gaze. "I think you will understand, once you've read it for yourself."

_Once you've read it for yourself. _There was an air of finality in her words. Mrs. Hughes had been right to caution him, then, only it hadn't been his job that was at risk, just his heart, and if Sybil hadn't cost him the one, she'd certainly cost him the other.

But not without a fight. He'd not go quietly, even as she dashed his dreams to pieces with her own hands.

"Yes. Well, I think I've heard enough," he said, holding the out the book of sonnets to her. "I've no need of the rest, not now."

"I know it is not what you might choose for yourself," she said, in a chastened tone. "But still I should very much like for you to read it. Then you might understand -"

"Understand what? The posh words of a dead woman?" At that she flinched, as though he'd raised a hand to her, and he continued in a gentler tone. "You're alive," he whispered, wanting badly to touch her but holding himself back by force of will. "Open your eyes, look about you. That's where you'll find your answers, what it means to live and die for someone. Not in the pages of a book."

"You're worse than Mary. Do you know that?" said Sybil, making no attempt to hide her anger. "You both think you can speak to me as though I were a child, as though I still understood nothing.

"That's not fair, not now. I've seen what war does to men, the price they pay – "

"Don't talk to me of prices," said Tom in a low voice. "Tell me, what's a fair price for facing the firing squad? And no medals, no honors when it's done. No pension for the widow. Even if she was never really a wife."

Again he had gone too far; he could see it in the look she was giving him. Yet he would not take back the words. They were true enough, and the injustice real enough -

"You know that I have no reply to that," Sybil was saying quietly. "And that it was not done in my name. Or in Daisy's or William's, for that matter."

"Of course it was."

"Branson, I did not come here to quarrel with you about the rising -"

"Then what did you come for? So we could recite poetry at each other?"

"I - no. Or maybe yes. Anyway, it does not matter, not now." She wrenched the book of sonnets out of his hand and made as if to leave, then turned round for a parting comment.

"What's the use of fine ideals when the practice of them is so wanting? You talk of _such_ things, but then, when it comes to it, you cannot be bothered to listen. Perhaps you've closed your ears - and your heart."

Then she was gone, and there he stood in his shirtsleeves, and with enough grease still beneath his nails to make him unfit to serve at table like old Carson, or even the greenest of the young footmen.

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N:** The lyrics to "Oh, You Beautiful Doll" are by Seymour Brown.

I was struggling with this story when I listened again to the Cambridge Singers' **Lark in the Clear Air**, and so had to add a dash of "She Moved Through the Fair," a traditional Irish song.

Branson quotes "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by William Butler Yeats, and Sybil recites a portion of XXXV of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's **Sonnets from the Portuguese****. **In both cases, it's what we_ don't_ hear that matters most.**  
**


	2. The Price of Everything

All characters belong to Julian Fellowes.

Written in response to Batwings79's 2012 St. Paddy's Day challenge, and this installment is in fact where we begin to get into the challenge-specific elements. And once upon a time, **My Heart Beguiled** was to be a two-chapter story, but excess of material has turned it into a three-act composition.

This episode is brought to you despite the June 29th derecho, subsequent power outages, hundred-degree-plus temperatures, imprisonment in a ring of corporate hell (and not in the cell next to Bates, either), writer's block, and one _highly_ uncooperative character...

**~.O.~**

_"What is a cynic?" _

_"A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."_

_ - Lady Windermere's Fan, Oscar Wilde  
_

**~.O.~**

_"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." _

_- Lady Windemere's Fan, Oscar Wilde_

**~.O.~**

**My Heart Beguiled  
**

**Chapter 2: The Price of Everything  
**

That evening Tom got up from the table before Daisy had even cleared all the crockery away. He'd spoken barely a word to anyone during the meal, but then he'd been in no humor for their chatter, not that the other servants took any notice - except for Mrs. Hughes, whose parting glance told him all he needed to know.

Right. Another woman in the household thought the less of him. He'd best get used to that.

Without a backward look he set off for the servants' quarters. That evening Lord Grantham would not be needing the motor, nor would the countess, and Tom meant to make the best of his leisure.

And he'd not spend it shut up in a bleak little room. No, he was only stopping long enough to fetch what he needed, then make his way back down the corridor, and from there into the open air.

He passed O'Brien and Thomas already standing sentinel by the door, cigarettes burning - as they'd be on any other evening, but for a cross word or two Tom caught as he went by - and he left them to their quarrel, pressed on into the darkness till he'd found just the spot: not an abandoned crate but a proper bench out under the night sky.

There he sat down and pulled the bottle from his pocket. Tonight he'd not content himself with drinking a glass of whatever dull wine those above stairs allowed the servants. Not this night.

For during the afternoon he'd taken Lady Mary into Ripon, as planned, and she'd been a great while about her errands, long enough for Tom to slip inside the public house and charm the landlady into selling him some good Irish whiskey - not much, mind you, but enough to do the job and leave a bit afterwards - and no one knew about it, not Lady Mary, not Mr. Carson, not even that sharp-eyed Mrs. Hughes.

And with luck, none of them should ever know.

**~.O.~**

Stars. So many stars lighting the heavens above him.

He opened the bottle, tipped it skywards, and took the first mouthful, felt the drink burn its way down his throat and into his blood. Pain, and then warmth. If he felt the one, then the other, he was alive. So how was it he could be numb at the same time?

He'd been that way all the day long, ever since Sybil had come to see him. That had begun well enough, with her standing so near that he caught the scent - spices, flowers, whatever it was - that he knew for her own, and bewitched his senses till he found himself staring at the smooth, fair skin of her face, and the ripe fullness of her lower lip, wondering how it might be to touch the one and taste the other.

And then it had all gone wrong.

Tom raised the bottle to his lips, drank a second time, and thought again on what had passed between them. Yes, he'd told her a few hard truths, but no more than she'd needed to hear. She was such an innocent, Sybil Crawley, and the cherished youngest daughter to the bargain, but then that was what he loved about her, that she was so different from her sisters, especially Lady Mary, who looked on a fellow and found him of use or found him wanting, when she took any notice of him at all. Sybil wasn't like that; her heart was open and her spirit restless, and she meant to know something of the wider world, and do her part in putting it to rights.

And so she would, but at _his_ side. He'd set his heart on that, and meant to ask her once more to come away with him, only she hadn't stayed long enough to listen -

"So what have you got there?"

He started so that he almost poured the whiskey out on the ground. That was Thomas's voice, and when Tom turned round to look, there was the man himself, one hand holding a fresh cigarette and the other reaching for the bottle - which he took up and uncorked without waiting for an answer.

"Whiskey," said the footman, sniffing at the opening. "And you got it past old Carson," he added, with something close to wonder and admiration, before going on, in his usual tone, "Still, it wouldn't do for him to hear about it now, would it?"

And before Tom could decide if the words were meant as a joke or a threat, Thomas had tipped the bottle up and his head back, and dispatched a good measure of whiskey to the best hiding place of all.

**~.O.~**

For a full minute afterwards Thomas couldn't speak as the drink hit its mark within him. "Not bad," he said at last, in a voice so rough none of the other servants should have known it. He set the bottle back down on the bench, and sat down heavily beside it.

"Not used to it, are you?" asked Tom.

Thomas shook his head. "Cigarette?" he said hoarsely, pulling another fag out of his pocket.

Now Thomas Barrow wasn't known for friendliness, let alone generosity, though he'd a gift for charming the unwary, when he chose to; Tom had seen it before, and never been taken in himself. Still, he accepted the cigarette, and a match to light it. After all, what did it matter now how his mouth tasted? He'd not get within a mile of Sybil that evening, and perhaps not any other -

"Not used to it, are you?" said the footman in his turn, as Tom was left coughing and gasping amid a cloud of smoke.

"Can't say I am," he said, soon as he could draw breath. "That's Miss O'Brien's territory. Talking of O'Brien, what've you done with her?"

Thomas shrugged. "She'll have gone inside, where it's warmer. And noisier, with Mrs. Patmore going on at Daisy about one thing or other.

"Quiet here, though," he added, looking about. "Peaceful."

"It is that," said Tom. "And all the stars above us. I don't believe I've ever seen so many."

Thomas cast an eye towards the heavens, blew out another lungful of smoke. "I have."

_Spoken like a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing_, thought Tom. And yet...

"Now those are the first honest words I've heard all day."

"Here's to honesty, then," said Thomas, taking up the bottle a second time.

**~.O.~**

That morning Tom had wished for nothing so much as a bit of time alone with Sybil, but that had been a fool's dream. Then when he'd set out to spend the evening on his own, aside from the stars - and the whiskey, of course - along had come Thomas to spoil it all.

Still, if Thomas wasn't the best company, he hadn't proven himself the worst, not by a long chalk. Perhaps he'd resolved to make an effort for once. Perhaps O'Brien had brought him to the end of his tether - likely enough, when she'd a tongue to cut glass, and a glare to curdle milk - or perhaps it was only the drink.

Yes, that was it; 'twas the whiskey. Everything had seemed simpler once they'd shared that first drink.

**~.O.~**

"To blunt, honest words," said Tom, taking a turn at the bottle. "Mind you, Thomas Barrow, you've nothing of the poet in you, none at all. Ah, well, 'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'"

Thomas snorted. "Speak for yourself. I don't mean to let any man put me in the gutter. Don't need any stars to tell my fortune, either."

"Have plans, do you?"

"I might," said Thomas, taking another pull on his cigarette.

_First Gwen, now this one_, thought Tom, but he smiled to himself. For all that his lordship was a decent enough man and, like his youngest daughter, took an interest in the welfare of the servants, he'd no idea at all of the revolution brewing under his own roof.

"Here's to a future that's worth having, then."

"A future worth having," echoed Thomas, raising the bottle yet again.

**~.O.~**

And on they went, neither of them willing to be the first man to say he'd had enough, that the night had grown too cold and it was time to join O'Brien and the others indoors. For his part, Tom was in no hurry to return to that world, and Thomas, having tasted whiskey, was not to be shifted from the bench. And so the two of them sat out there in the dark with the bottle going back and forth between them, and the banter, for as long as both would last.

**~.O.~**

_To be continued..._


	3. A Future That's Worth Having

All characters, as well as a stray bit of dialogue, belong to Julian Fellowes.

Written in response to Batwings79's 2012 St. Paddy's Day challenge and according to her guidelines. Which means it contains alcohol consumption and the effects thereof. Also, here is where I finally reveal the source of the title, if you haven't already guessed.

**Recap:** In the morning, one of Tom Branson and Lady Sybil's famous garage conversations goes characteristically awry. The afternoon finds the chauffeur back behind the wheel to take Lady Mary into Ripon. By evening he's in none too happy a mood, and who should turn up then but everybody's favorite malcontent, Thomas Barrow. _Dun-dun-dun._

**~.O.~**

Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to post reviews, and heartfelt thanks to the ever supportive Mazzie for sending the quotation below - a bit modern, and Jobs wasn't an Irishman, but it was just so fitting for Branson.

**~.O.~**

_"...have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." - Steve Jobs_

**~.O.~**

**My Heart Beguiled**

**Chapter 3: A Future That's Worth Having**

"Money," announced Thomas, when they'd been at the whiskey a while. "It's all down to money."

"What's down to money?"

"This life. Can't do as you please unless you've got money. Or can get it."

"I don't know about that," said Tom. Money or no, his lordship's heir, Mr. Crawley, had come home from the war a broken man. And then there was Lady Mary, giving orders and living among all manner of fine things, and yet the walls of the house might as well have been the bars of a cage...

"Don't know about money?" Thomas was saying. "I reckon that makes two of us. It's not as though we ever see any."

"No, I only meant money might not leave a man free to do as he pleases. Mind you, it has its uses," added Tom, thinking back on a fine evening or two.

_"Of all the money that e'er I spent,_  
_I spent it in good company._  
_And all the harm that e'er I've done,_  
_Alas, it was to none but me._  
_And all I've done for want of wit_  
_To mem'ry now I can't recall._  
_So fill to me the parting glass._  
_Good night, and joy be with you all."_

"What _was_ that?" said Thomas.

"Something we used to sing in Dublin."

"Give us the bottle, then," said Barrow. "If I'm to be made to listen."

**~.O.~**

Drink made some men freer with their talk and laughter, and others with their fists. Then there were those fellows who couldn't touch whiskey or beer without turning melancholy, and Thomas, it seemed, was in the last group.

"We're the same, you and me," he told Tom after they'd had a bit more of the drink.

"What do you mean?"

"Just biding our time, the both of us, till the day we see the last of this place."

"What? Like prison?" said Tom lightly. But the words had left him uneasy, and brought to mind another talk he'd had, not on an whiskey-sodden evening but in the sober light of day.

_You won't be content to stay at Downton forever, will you, and tinkering away at an engine instead of fighting for freedom?_

The guilt had returned too; he hadn't drowned it, though not for want of trying.

"I've reason enough to be here," he said, a bit too forcefully, and picked up the bottle again. "And you - well, you wouldn't want to break Miss O'Brien's heart now, would you?"

At that Barrow snorted, and took another pull on his cigarette.

"Besides," added Tom, "you had your chance at freedom."

Thomas turned to look at him. "I went to _war_. And I was shot."

"So you were. Only you came home, and not to die."

"Blimey, you're a cheerful one," muttered Thomas. "I'd rather hear you sing than talk, at this rate. That farting glass thing again, maybe."

"It's parting glass. _Parting _glass."

**~.O.~**

_"If I had money enough to spend,_  
_And leisure time to sit a while,_  
_There is a fair maid in this town_  
_That sorely has my heart beguiled._  
_Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,_  
_I own, she has my heart in thrall._  
_Then fill to me the parting glass,_  
_Good night and joy be with you all."_

"Money again," said Thomas. "It's always money."

But Tom was barely listening. Money, leisure - what did any of it matter when Ireland was on the other side of the sea, and Sybil Crawley on the other side of that wall, and the one was as distant as the other, and as likely to come to him.

No, no, that wasn't right. She _had_ come to him, earlier that day; he'd forgotten that, and how she'd smiled at him, not at all like a girl who meant to tell a fellow to pack his bags and be off. What a fool he'd been not to see it.

"Thomas, did you ever think what you might have done? If you'd seen how things really were, I mean."

For a moment the footman sat there without answering. "Sometimes." He threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath one heel. "Not often.

"So, that song - has it got another verse?"

**~.O.~**

_"O all the comrades that e'er I had_  
_Are sorry for my going away._  
_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_  
_Would wish me one more day to stay._  
_But since it falls into my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not,_  
_I'll gently rise and softly call,_  
_Good night, and joy be with you all."_

Joy_. _Of course there'd be none of that, this evening or the next morning, when he'd pay the price for how he'd spent the last hour. Still, there was nothing for it but a night's sleep.

"Right. We'd best go in." Queer, how his own voice sounded - as though it were coming from far away - but Tom decided to think on that later. With a mighty effort he got to his feet - but it wasn't his feet that were the trouble, of course; it was his head.

Then he noticed that not only wasn't Thomas standing next to him, he hadn't so much as stirred from the bench. In fact he was completely motionless. Dear God, he couldn't have taken _that_ much of the whiskey - though certainly he'd had enough of it.

"Thomas,"said Tom anxiously, clapping the footman on the shoulder. "Thomas." At the touch Barrow flinched, but he made no effort to rise.

"Come on. I'll not leave you here to - "

"Thing is, I do see," said Thomas abruptly. "_Did_ see," he amended, bowing his head.

Now here was a conversation Tom didn't remember beginning. "See? What do you see?"

"How things really are."

"Do you now."

"Always have done," said Thomas, staring out into the darkness, the bottle still gripped in one hand and another cigarette slowly burning itself out in the other. He _was_ in a bad way, worse than Tom had expected. And it would be job to get him indoors without Mr. Carson noticing.

"Come on," Tom said, half ready to pull or even lift the footman up from the bench, but to his surprise Thomas got to his feet with very little urging, though not as quickly as he might have done sober.

"Doesn't stop it all going wrong, though," he was saying. "Not always."

"No, not always," echoed Tom, grimly pushing him in the direction of the house, and almost tripping and falling to the ground when when Barrow suddenly turned round.

"I tried," he said. "I tried..."

"I don't doubt it," said Tom, firmly laying a hand on his shoulder and nudging him back the other way. The pair of them should take the whole night to reach the house, at this rate.

"Of course they pushed me around," mumbled Thomas. "Same as always."

"Then you have to fight back. You have to keep fighting."

But Tom was just clear-headed enough to recognize the hollowness of his words. _Keep fighting_. And how was he to do that when he hadn't yet begun, when he hadn't so much as set foot in Ireland in a great while? He'd talked often enough of playing his part, and Sybil had taken every word to heart, but the truth was he'd done nothing, nothing...

"You know, when you talk like that, I almost believe you," said Thomas, his voice breaking.

_Oh, no, not this,_ thought Tom, and inwardly cursed himself for ever letting Barrow have so much as a drop of the whiskey.

"He wasn't ready," went on Thomas. "I told them that. I _told_ them. Didn't count for anything," he added bitterly. "My word against his. Who are they going to believe, a working-class lad or Major Clarkson?"

"Major Clarkson," said Tom unthinkingly. "Come on. You'll have an aching head, come morning. No sense catching your death to the - "

"Mind you, _she_ couldn't stop it happening either."

"She?" asked Tom.

"Who d'you think?" said Thomas, swaying slightly but still managing to fix an eye on him. "_Nurse_ Crawley."

There it was; that had sounded like Thomas Barrow. But it wasn't so much the sneer as the mention of Sybil's name that caused Tom's fists to clench.

"No, that's not fair," went on Thomas, the bitterness suddenly gone from his voice. "Only one of them that could be bothered.

"Clarkson told her they weren't in the ballroom anymore. Didn't want to know what she thought. 'Why should I?' he said. Now he's dead."

"Dr. Clarkson?" said Tom, no longer sure what to make of any of this.

"No! Not him. Not him." Thomas's voice trailed off, and now it was clear he was fighting back tears. If Tom hadn't seen it, he'd never have believed it. But he'd have to get Thomas indoors as quickly as possible, and hope they'd both have forgotten this by morning.

Again he laid a hand on the footman's shoulder. "Yes, that was a bad business with William. He was as good a man as any of us - better, maybe.

"Mind you, I'd no idea you were so fond of him." _Or fond of him at all_. _Or fond of anyone._

"Not William."

"All right then, not William," said Tom, finally losing patience. "Some other poor bastard they sent over the top. But you couldn't stop it happening, no more than I could have. Or anyone."

And yet he doubted the truth of the words as soon as he spoke them. He might've stopped it happening. He might've, if only he'd been in Dublin that day...

But all his guilty thoughts came to a stop with a most unexpected noise.

_"...since it falls into my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not..."_

Thomas's voice trailed off once again, in what sounded dangerously close to a sob, though Tom couldn't say for sure. But he did know what had to be done next._  
_

"Right, that's the lot," he said briskly, easing the now empty whiskey bottle out of Thomas's grip. "I tell you, you're an odd one, Thomas Barrow," he said, once more guiding the footman in the direction of the doorway. "You've a heart like flint, but a drop of the craythur and one sad song and you're ready to top yourself - "

"You _bastard_." Thomas swung round and grasped Tom's coat, thrust his face forward till they were nose to nose. "You Irish bastard, he was worth ten of you, _ten_ of you!"

Tom felt himself staggering backwards, and the whiskey bottle slipping from his fingers. And he felt - and _heard_ - the fist striking his jaw.

**~.O.~**

"Have you gone mad?" Again it seemed as though his voice were coming from far away as the noise of the scuffle - grunts, muttered curses, and blow after blow - filled the air. But Tom hadn't drunk so much that he couldn't hold his own in the fight, even if Thomas did seem to be in the grip of some strange, unexpected battle frenzy.

Then all at once there were other voices calling out across the courtyard, and the rough sound of shoes scraping against dirt and gravel, and the thud of a cane striking the earth as the other servants came out to see what was happening. Tom spotted a crisp white apron and cap, and recognized Anna and, next to her, Mr. Bates, who had dropped his walking stick and was trying to seize Thomas about the shoulders when both of them lost their balance and went over like ninepins. Even with his senses dulled by drink, Tom winced at the force with which Bates hit the ground, though it wasn't as bad as it might have been, as just at that moment O'Brien had come up behind him - to take her part in the donnybrook, perhaps - and down she went as well, legs flailing, petticoats flashing.

Everything seemed to stop then, as a tall figure in black loomed above the lot of them, and a second, smaller figure, also clad in black, hurried to his side.

"Enough! That's enough!" the second shape was crying out with the authority of God Himself, though Tom had to wonder at God having a Scottish accent, as well as the voice of a woman.

**~.O.~**

"Now this is going to sting," said Mrs. Hughes crisply, and Tom didn't know whether to take it as a warning or simply a statement of fact.

She had taken the nursing duties upon herself, with Anna and O'Brien assisting, and though the women were gentle enough - yes, even O'Brien - as they went about their work, no one seemed of a mind to linger. But if the truth were to be told, there wasn't much to be done, as Mrs. Hughes had put a stop to the fight before either man came to grievous harm.

Besides, the true pain and suffering should come afterwards, and not only from an aching head.

**~.O.~**

In the morning Tom rose early, as befitted a condemned man. He'd no appetite for breakfast - his throat was like a chimney, and his mouth tasted as though some foul beast had crawled inside and afterwards died - but Mrs. Hughes was unyielding. On her orders, Daisy brought strong tea and dry toast, and the housekeeper herself took charge of the teapot, pouring out generous and very strong cupfuls for Thomas and himself, and overseeing every swallow and bite.

And unlike Daisy, she kept a merciful silence.

Thomas was as pale as a ghost, but managed as well as he might with the toast and tea, and even rose smartly to his feet when Mr. Carson entered the room - though Tom was certain he saw the footman wince with the effort.

"As you know, his lordship will be making an early start this morning," announced Mr. Carson in a great loud voice. He might as well have fired a gun, or perhaps a cannon, right beside Tom's head. "But before you go about your separate duties, I should like to have a word with you both."

And with that, Charles Carson - judge, jury, and executioner - led the way to his office.

**~.O.~**

"I am less concerned, Mr. Branson," said Mr. Carson sternly, "with who struck the first blow than with your bringing such dishonor upon this house. Excessive drinking - yes, I know about the whiskey - and brawling like common hooligans? His lordship is a fair and generous man, but I do not think he would wink at such goings-on. Nor shall I."

At that Tom's heart sank. He was finished, he'd be turned out of the house without so much as a chance to say another word to -

"However," went on Mr. Carson, "having interviewed Miss O'Brien and Mr. Bates, I have found no evidence that either of you embarked on this - this _misadventure_ with anything approaching malice." The butler fixed his eye upon Thomas. "Indeed Miss O'Brien was of the opinion that you had been out of spirits."

Too late he realized he'd chosen just the wrong expression, but he cleared his throat and went on.

"Yes. Well. On such occasions a bit of diversion is entirely forgivable - though Mr. Bates reported that when he'd heard the singing, and afterwards the altercation, he'd been fully as baffled by the former as the latter."

But he'd known to go right for Thomas. Good old Bates -

"- I dare say none of us remained unaltered by the war," Mr. Carson was saying. "Of course I need not speak of that to you," he added, turning again to look at Thomas.

"But neither shall that serve as an excuse. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," said Tom penitently.

"Yes, Mr. Carson." This from Thomas, more sullenly.

The butler cleared his throat a second time. "Very well. I am persuaded that on this occasion clemency is once again in order, on the understanding that you resolve any future disagreements or episodes of bad humor without recourse to violence _or _strong drink. Is that understood?"

"Mr. Carson, I give you my word -"

"I do not require any further demonstrations of remorse, Mr. Branson, only your compliance."

"Then you have it."

"And you, Thomas?" said the butler, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Yes." Then, after a pause: "Yes, Mr. Carson."

**~.O.~**

"You!" Mrs. Patmore to Thomas. "Mind where you stand, or you'll end up covered in porridge from head to foot." At the mention of food the green tinge in Barrow's face appeared to deepen, and he beat a hasty retreat as the cook continued her assault on the breakfast table. "Daisy, what've you done with the marmalade?"

"Right here, Mrs. Patmore..."

Despite all the strong tea and dry toast, Tom didn't feel much better himself, and resolved to go out and see to the motor, and maybe enjoy a bit of peace before the day began. He didn't relish the thought of ferrying his lordship about that morning, but at least he'd a job, and for that he was grateful.

He was fumbling for his cap, and within minutes of securing his escape, when Mrs. Hughes appeared at his elbow. "A word, Mr. Branson," she said in a voice fit to freeze the blood.

**~.O.~**

"Close the door," said Mrs. Hughes after they'd reached her sitting room.

Tom obeyed, and turned round to face her.

"Well, first poor William, now you," she said, with a sigh, and even a bit of a sad smile. "Thomas does have a rare talent for the harsh word, I'll grant you that, and for trying the patience, even of the gentlest souls. But you must pay him no mind."

"Mrs. Hughes, I never - "

"I said you're to pay him no mind," she repeated firmly. She regarded him for a moment, and sighed again. "Honestly, what's the use of all those fine ideals of yours if someone like Thomas Barrow can put your nose out of joint, and set the both of you squabbling like a pair of schoolboys?"

Tom felt the blood rushing to his face. He had the uncomfortable feeling he'd heard those words, or words very like them, once before...

"Now I know you have ambitions," Mrs. Hughes went on. "Even dreams, like any young man," she added, blushing faintly herself. "Don't trample them underfoot, and all for the price of a drink and a bit of nonsense."

"No, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, I mustn't keep you," said the housekeeper primly. "Or spend the day standing about myself when there's work to be done." Her briskness was oddly comforting, and left Tom feeling bold enough to offer a smile and a nod as he took his leave.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her speaking to him one last time.

"You'll make something of yourself, Mr. Branson; I've no doubt of it. Mind you don't let a proud heart and a quick temper stand in your way."

**~.O.~**

She was right, Mrs. Hughes. He'd ambitions, and dreams, a great many of them.

_Don't trample them underfoot._

A better man would not have wasted an evening on the drink and on self-pity, not when there was so much worth fighting for.

He'd told Sybil it was all up to her, but that hadn't been true, not in the least. _He'd_ have to fight for her - so would any man worthy of her, of course, but then he had more to lose.

And more to gain.

**The End**

**~.O.~**

"The Parting Glass" is a traditional song and near-constant source of fanfic inspiration. In this instance I've used the lyrics favored by the Washington Revels.


End file.
